


Let Them Melt, Let Them Fire, Let Them Burn

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Candles, M/M, Rituals, Sibling Incest, Wax, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: 100-2.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's life is on the line and some ritual spellwork is the only way to make it right.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Them Melt, Let Them Fire, Let Them Burn

They drive out in the dead of night and get ready in complete silence. The silence isn't strictly necessary, not _before_ they start the ritual, but Sam is for it anyway. He's still, maybe a little bit irrationally, pissed off at Dean for getting himself whammied in the first place. His stupid, cock-sure big brother, always throwing himself in the goddamn line of fire, even when the 'fire' is glowing a menacing shade of green and spinning into existence out of a cursed amulet.

They've long since left the amulet in pieces, but every time he glances up from his work Sam can see the glowing edges of the sloped sigil it burned into Dean's forehead. They still don't know what it means, not really, not beyond the inescapable certainty that if it stays there Dean will drop dead in a matter of months.

Fortunately, with the connections they have, Sam and Dean don't need to understand it to fight it. They've got instructions, archaic but complete, and a week of practicing and memorizing and finding supplies puts them about as ready for this as they can be. It's a bitch of a ritual, intricate timing and twisting pronunciations and only one shot at doing it right. But failure isn't worth contemplating, and there's no time like right goddamn now.

Which is why it's the middle of the night and they're crouched between the scraggly trees on a small thicket of an island. The whole way here Dean tried to argue that the island was taking things too far, and why couldn't they just do it in their hotel room. But they're supposed to be surrounded by water, and Sam isn't ready to bet Dean's life on a damp circle of motel carpet and the hope that it's a symbolic requirement.

He sets a dozen thick, heavy candles burning while they set up, no uniformity in size or color because apparently the _really_ bitchy spellwork requires a spectrum. A wide circle of ingredients scatters across the dirt. Angelica, wormwood, burdock, mandrake, hyssop. All barely visible in the half-light of the moon filtering down through the trees. They scratch complex runes into the dirt around the ring, and finally there's nothing left but to start.

Dean is fidgety. Sam doesn't blame him.

A quick wind sweeps past them, not blowing out the candles but shaking the flames into a manic dance. Sam steps back from the circle and watches Dean pace around it once, and again, a third time before he stops and breathes. This isn't part of the spell. This is Dean gearing up and battening down, because his hands will be as full as Sam's, however figuratively, and Sam can't help feel like Dean's got the rough end of this bargain. It's Dean that's had to memorize the hypnotic chant that goes with their work, and Dean that has to get it just right for any hope of success. Add to that the fact that this is probably going to hurt like hell, and Sam doesn't begrudge his brother the moment to gather his wits.

"Okay?" Sam asks. He raises gauging eyes to meet Dean's half-hearted scowl.

"Okay," says Dean, and strips right out of his clothes. He folds them carefully and sets them aside, and Sam barely catches the hesitation as his brother steps across the line of herbs and kneels naked inside the circle. He leans forward, back a pale canvas of skin in the blue light of the moon and the flickering shiver of flame.

Sam takes his own steadying breath as he crouches behind Dean and picks up the first of the candles. This is _his_ hard part, precision work with dripping wax that he's been practicing for a week on surfaces other than skin, and he realizes the image of Dean's back as a canvas is ridiculously apt.

Timing is everything, the right incantation for each color candle, and they've practiced as well as they can, which is nowhere near enough. Sam is honestly not sure which of them this will be harder for, but as he drips the first of the simple matching runes on Dean's shoulders, the soft muttering of chant hits him somewhere deep and hard. The quiet hitches in his brother's breathing don't break the stream of words. Sam chews viciously on his own lower lip as he drips a third identical symbol just below the nape of the neck, and the soft, stretched tone of Dean's voice worms its way under his skin.

He trails a whole series of amber lines across each other and down Dean's spine, their edges smudging along skin, the trail of wax not quite fast enough to dry against gravity. A large, asymmetrical symbol covers Dean's whole ass, and Sam cringes in sympathy at that one. Dean's litany stutters a couple times, falters once into a silent, sharp inhale, but doesn't stop until the necessary pause of halfway done.

They rearrange in silence so that Dean can lean the other way, still kneeling and balanced back against his hands, the bare expanse of his chest offered to the light.

Sam's head hurts with how hard he's focusing, his hand threatening to shake from the fatigue of forcing heavy candles into such slow, careful work. A small red smear of a symbol over Dean' heart. A streaming spiral from there, across and down his chest. A crisscrossing pattern that spreads wide from his left flank all across his stomach.

Which finally drags Sam from his head-pounding focus, because he can't miss and can't ignore the sight before him. Dean laid out, barely keeping up with his mantra through the near gasps and hisses, eyes glazed, and apparently it's not all pain. Sam's heartbeat stutters in his chest, because Dean's dick is hard, and there's no un-having that particular revelation.

He tries not to raise his eyes to Dean's. Fails at it utterly, and a heavy, indecipherable exchange passes silent between them. Silent because there's no interrupting this now. A single word out of place will shatter the spell they're trying to cast and leave them empty and out of options.

The moment passes by force of will as Sam sets aside purple for blue and drips a matching pattern of circles down Dean's thighs. He can't keep his hands from shaking any longer, and thank god that's the final symbol. With the last word out of Dean's mouth, a cocoon of heat snaps tight around them, bearing heavy against their skin and agonizingly slow to dissipate.

Once its weight is gone Sam's eyes fly instantly to Dean's forehead, no longer glowing with the burning scar of the intricately unidentifiable symbol, and something in his chest gratefully unwinds.

"Oh, thank god," Dean mutters, scrubbing at his face and obviously trying to convince himself that he's _not_ kneeling naked in the dirt on an island at two in the morning. "If that hadn't worked--"

"Dude," Sam cuts him off, suddenly distracted by the more pressing revelation. "You're turned on."

"Shut up," Dean mutters, moving to stand and get dressed. Which would, Sam supposes, be a downright practical thing to let him do.

But it looks like the practical part of his brain can't be bothered to take charge, because Dean hasn't even gotten his feet back under him before Sam knocks him flat on his back. He straddles his brother in a quick, easy movement that has nothing to do with all the times they've sparred their way to the ground. It's awkward, because Dean is completely naked and Sam is completely not. But the finished paint-by-number of his brother's skin is doing strange things to Sam's insides, and the moment is surreal, thick with the unexpected heat pulsing through him.

"Wax, Dean?" he asks, surprised at how steady, easy, teasing his voice sounds. "Seriously?"

"Sammy," Dean says. There's something hard and warning in his voice, but it chokes away when Sam reaches for one of the still burning candles. "Sam, whatever you think this is--" But Sam cuts him off with gentle fingers against his lips. He puts all the 'trust me' he can into his eyes, sees the wide uncertainty in Dean's own as he draws his hand away.

Sam raises the candle with cautious deliberation and splashes white wax across Dean's chest to mar his previous handiwork. Dean arches up, actually _whimpers_ , and a quick glance confirms that yeah, he's definitely still interested. Sam grabs another candle and drips more delicately, _carefully_ up the long column of throat bared as Dean's neck arches back. Dean's fingers clutch harsh at Sam's thighs through denim, his eyes rolling back in his head and his dick flushed and hard against his stomach. It shouldn't be beautiful. Sam shouldn't _want_ like this. But it's a little late for his conscience to protest, and the quiet voice of disapproval in his head isn't enough to make Sam want to stay his hand.

"Jesus!" Dean hisses when Sam drips a slow, steady trickle of wax down his ribs. His fingers cling all the harder through Sam's jeans, and Sam almost hopes they leave bruises.

"Dean," Sam whispers, leaning suddenly low and biting at his ear. "Can I?" He sets the candle aside and grasps Dean's dick, gentle but sure in his hand.

Dean barely manages a nod, but it's enough, and Sam jacks him off right there in the dirt and herbs of their abandoned ritual. The moon has gone into hiding and taken its light along with it, and the flicker of candles is all Sam has to illuminate the sight of Dean biting his lower lip, breathing in edgy grunts and gasps as he twists into the dirt under the slick slide of Sam's hand.

Sam is hard as hell after watching Dean come. He ignores the uncomfortable press of denim gone tight and leans in for a kiss, stroking his brother down slowly.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean says, and might sound a little bit broken. They stare immobile through the dark for a long, shaken moment, and nothing but their breath breaks into the air of the island.

Sam finally slips up and away, scooting back to let Dean rise, breath caught by the strangely textured canvas of Dean's skin with all the layers of wax cracking along his body.

They pack everything away as silent as they set it up, kicking the circle of herbs into the dirt. Dean peels off and brushes away the evidence of their ritual and what came after it, pulling his clothes on in jerking movements that Sam catches in his peripheral vision. The candles come last, blown out and tossed unceremoniously into a grocery bag.

A blessedly short time takes them back to the car, then motel and a hot shower. Sam doesn't need one. Dean's lasts an hour.

By the time he emerges, Sam has turned out the lights and crawled into bed. He's not asleep yet, and they both know this isn't over. Even Dean can't pretend this shit doesn't need talking through.

But that's for tomorrow. Sam thinks maybe he's a coward. Maybe he's more than a little scared to look Dean in the eye after that dreadfully quiet _'Fuck, Sammy.'_ But tonight, Dean isn't dying, and that's goddamn good enough.

It has to be.


End file.
